Nature Series - The War in the Countryside

Nature Series - The War on the Countryside

The hideous sound of the horn blared across the boundless countryside, rebounding against the grassy peaks, that were still sodden from the remnants of the early-morning dew. The skies were as dark as a raven's wing, beating in the bitter winds that hailed the coming of a storm. A biting chill set upon the hillside, willing all creatures, great and small, to seek solace in the deepest depths, the smallest crevices, the tallest trees. A darkness was coming, that much was for certain. A darkness so potent, so formidable, that even the mighty eagle cowered in the face of it. Yet this darkness did not possess magic, nor might. It did not creep and claw, or sweep and snatch. This darkness was camouflaged; adorned in scarlet suit jackets that, at first inspection, appeared dapper and swank, and pristinely polished boots, a product of the most patent leather. But the animals knew the monster than hid behind this front, they knew the murderous lunacy that percolated in their veins, they knew these merciless hunters would stop at nothing to massacre nature, if only to stuff the fox, or frame the stag, and brag egotistically at some distasteful dinner party. Many had fallen before them – but not today.

The howl of the hounds marked the beginning of the fox's fight for his life. His fiery paws hastened against the crisp ground beneath, urging himself forward with all of his might, sending chunks of soil upwards in an indispensable frenzy. The horse's hooves thundered against the terrain, their power and brute no match for the brittle undergrowth, and the roar of the hunter's whipped against the winds, inducing a blood-curling terror in the heart of the young fox. He felt it hammer hard against the confines of his chest, trepidation fuelling every part of his body. His bronze orbs remained trained to the traversing turf beneath him, driving his bushing frame onwards, until his body was met with great force, as the slicing branches of the dense and unruly hedge hacked and ripped at his husk. He was cornered. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide – his eyes flickered towards the band of executioners that grew closer with every passing second.

But small though the fox may appear, he was mighty, astute, cunning. The fox had more heart, more courage, more brilliance than the hunters combined, and step by step he retreated back into the vegetation, fervently feeling for a snag in the hedgerow in which he could use as a means to escape. A feeling of relief rushed over the fox's small frame as he found a gap in the bushy foliage, though the respite was short-lived as the pitiful menace continued to loom, and the fox continued onwards with haste. As the day began to draw to a close, and the finite daylight turned to an obscure cobalt sky, the fox scarpered through the rolling hills, a mere figure in the distance. The sounds of the hunt were nothing but whisper in the wind, and the galloping horses slowed, their masters defeated by the wit of the cunning fox. The battle of the countryside had been won, and the fox reigned victor. He trotted back towards his den, in the deep depth of the forest bed, and curled up beneath the stellar sky, safe for now. But he knew, with great angst and despair, that come the weekend, the war would continue, and he must face evil once again.